tomorrow will be kinder
by ifonly13
Summary: They say your first is always the hardest. She'd have to agree.


_**tomorrow will be kinder**_

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_Many of the most sincere thanks (and a lifetime supply of grilled cheese) to Jenny for not only prompting this story but also reading (and re-reading and re-re-reading) this for me._

* * *

They say your first is always the hardest.

And now? Now she'd have to agree.

The room seems silent. She's been here long enough now that the low buzz and soft beepings around her have faded into the background. The muffled sobs and quiet whispering blending together, their combined sounds a strange but gentle lullaby. Occasionally, a sharp alarm cuts through the air, the panic settling heavier on the shoulders of everyone in the room as nurses rush to the correct station.

Her eyes keep drifting shut, the exhaustion from the past two days weighing her lids down until she forces them back up. Her fingers tighten around her phone, letting the hard case press into her palm. The silly case he had bought her four months ago right after they found out the gender of the baby; pale purple elephant holding a little pink rattle in the curve of its trunk. She wants to send another picture to him. Just in case it's the last time their daughter's tiny chest rises and falls. Instead, she rolls the edge of the glove along the inside of her wrist, letting it unroll before she repeats it.

He's late.

The last text she got from him was letting her know that he was boarding the plane in Orlando. That was almost six hours ago.

A hand touches her shoulder and she jumps, her phone falling out of her hand and onto the shiny linoleum. The elephant smiles up at her until she turns to see the pretty redhaired nurse at her side.

"You need anything?" she asks, her voice calm and quiet.

She shakes her head. "No. Thanks," Kate lies, her voice rough from lack of use.

The nurse nods. "Okay. Here," she says, leaning over and picking up the phone. "Cute cover." She makes sure that Kate has a grip on it before she moves down to the couple next to her.

She does need something though.

She needs Castle and she needs their baby to be okay.

Her finger smooths over the back of the case, the latex of her glove catching on the plastic and squeaking a little. She has to turn it over, unable to look at the cartoon elephant anymore. Instead, she watches the baby's toes curl, the smallest of movements making her heart leap.

And then she sees the door of the NICU open, the swish of the door sending a breeze down the length of the room.

The yellow of the gown makes his skin look pasty, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes. His hair is sticking up and she knows it's because he's been running his hands through it. Hands that look larger than normal in the white gloves holding the sleeves of the gown over his arms.

He stumbles over, the line of his throat working to form words but coming up with nothing. His fingers tremble as he reaches through the wide hole on the side of the incubator, hesitating for half of a second before he touches the tip of his forefinger to the back of the baby's hand. So carefully, as if he were afraid that the slightest touch would break her. The baby's fingers unfurl slowly as he strokes over the soft skin to her elbow, careful of the IV taped to her forearm.

"Kate," he murmurs, his voice a sad rasp as he looks over at her.

A breath she didn't know she was holding breaks free, sounding something like his name but she's not sure. Her shoulders hunch forward as she finally lets everything fall apart. She hears his knees crack against the floor a moment before his arms pull her into his chest. The paper gown crinkles under her forehead as she turns her head into his neck, her fingers squeezing the back of his head.

"She stopped breathing," she sobs. "She... Castle, she wasn't..."

"It's okay," he breathes into her cheek. "She's going to be okay."

He tries to shift back but she hooks her arms around his neck, keeping him against her. He smells of dried sweat and old cologne and the sterile paper gown. He reaches behind him and loosens her arms, sitting back on his heels. Her eyes dance between his and the incubator behind him.

"I shouldn't have gone," he says, his thumb brushing over the heel of her palm. "I should have been here with you. My plane was delayed and then it had to go to Ohio before getting to JFK... Kate, what happened?"

"I don't know," she sighs brokenly, fighting back another wave of grief and panic. "You're on the floor," says Kate as if realizing it for the first time.

"What happened?" he repeats, cupping her face in his hands, refocusing her on him.

"The cord was wrapped around her neck. She wasn't breathing." He wipes a stray tear from the curve of her cheek. "I couldn't do anything, Castle. She wasn't breathing and I was stuck doing nothing. Everything was so fast." She wraps her left hand around his wrist, letting her short nails dig through the gown and his wrinkled shirt to his skin. "She's stopped breathing a few times. Usually the nurses just rock her for a bit and she starts up again. What if...? What if she just doesn't start one time?"

Castle threads his fingers through her hair, tugging her head back into the crook of his shoulder. "She's going to be okay," he mutters. "She's got to be okay." His voice shakes in her ear and she feels the hot burn of tears on her neck, trickling down underneath the neckline of her gown along her collarbone.

She draws back just a little, enough to touch her cheek to his and feel the unshaven stubble. Her fingers smooth down the fine hairs at the back of his neck. Trying to stop the subtle trembling of her own body by pulling some of his quiet strength through her fingertips.

"Can I hold her?" he asks, barely above a whisper.

When she shakes her head, she feels him squeeze at her wrist. "We can't. She hasn't hit the right milestones yet," she says. "The doctors need to monitor her lungs, keep her on oxygen just in case."

"But..." He stands up suddenly and she sways back into the chair as he paces away a few steps. "Kate, she nearly died and we can't even hold her?" There's an edge of rage cutting into the grief now.

She can relate.

So she gives him a moment, watching as sure, angry steps turn into slow shuffles before he grabs one of the spare chairs at an empty station, dragging it over to her. He drops into it, his elbow jostling against hers. She slides her fingers along the inside of his arm, twining their fingers together.

"I'm sorry," he sighs. "Just..."

She tips her head onto his shoulder. "I know," she says gently. "I know."

They sit in silence, watching her thin, narrow chest carefully. The baby's mouth opens, little lips smacking against one another softly. He reaches forward with his left hand, letting it coast gently over her cheek, barely touching the corner of her mouth. "She has your cheekbones," he tries to tease.

"She's underweight," Kate reminds him. "Only five pounds and seven ounces. Anyone would have my cheekbones with that weight."

"What's her name?" he asks, turning his head down to look at her.

"Huh?" Kate glances up at him, trying to work through the words even as fatigue fights to pull her into sleep. "Oh. She doesn't have one." Before he can speak again, though, she frees her hand so that she can push her thumb into his thigh. "It didn't feel right. Not without you here too."

His lips glance gracelessly over her temple. "Thank you," he whispers, "for waiting."

"Still like Elizabeth?"

"Yeah."

"Elizabeth Nicole?"

"Really?" he says, the hint of a smile breaking across the half of his face that she can see. "After insisting that no daughter of ours would ever..."

She snakes an arm up around his head, half-heartedly twisting his ear. "Yes or no?"

"It's beautiful. She's beautiful." He shifts in the seat so that he can catch her lips in a quick kiss. "You want to go home or stay here a little while longer?"

"Can we stay? Just until she gets to sleep," she says, interrupted when the baby kicks out, the plastic of her diaper crinkling and the start of a whimper hanging in the air. Kate sighs, edging closer to the cradle. "Sometimes she has trouble dropping off."

"I got it," he says quickly, scooting the rocking chair closer to the holes on the side of the incubator. "I have it on good authority that my voice is soothing."

She fumbles for her phone, having to try twice before she gets a clear picture. Castle leaning one arm on his leg, the other next to the baby's shoulder as he weaves the tale into a soft blanket over their daughter.


End file.
